


Phrenology

by okapi



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Jealous John Watson, M/M, Sherlock Kink Meme, phrenology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-22 20:41:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10704702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Fill for the Sherlock Kink Meme #140:ACD Homes/Watson How about Watson watching Holmes giving some bloke a phrenology exam or demonstration and Watson getting all jealous?





	1. MacDonald

The sitting room that Holmes and I shared has been witness to, and casualty of, many an unusual circumstance over the years; nevertheless, I was not prepared for the sight that greeted me when I reached the top of the stairs one ordinary Tuesday morning:

Holmes with his hands on a man’s head.

Holmes _rubbing_ a man’s head.

Certain I was interrupting something, I coughed quietly.

“Good morning, Doctor Watson.”

Even before the man twisted in Holmes’s armchair, I recognised him. The hard Aberdonian accent was unmistakable.

“It’s all above board, Watson. If Mister Mac agrees, you’re welcome to stay. As a medical man, there may be something of interest to you in this matter.”

Though none of us in the room knew it at the time, Inspector Alec MacDonald was less than a year away from the case that would bring him national fame. It would be an investigation in which he greatly distinguished himself, naturally, but the earlier Birlstone Mystery, which I recorded and published as _The Valley of Fear_ , would always be my favourite of the cases in which he and Holmes collaborated.

And now it seemed that he and Holmes were collaborating on a very different affair, one that involved Holmes massaging the Scotsman’s scalp!

“Phrenology, Watson. I am conducting research for a monograph on the subject, specifically the successful professional detective’s assets from the collar upwards, that is, what might be said about his investigatory technique, prowess, and success based on the shape of his head. For science’s sake, Mister Mac has agreed to participate in my study and submit to a brief and painless evaluation.”

“It’s a small return, Mister Holmes, for the many times you’ve assisted me, without reward but your own joy of problem-solving. In addition, it’ll confirm, what I know in my heart, that Scotland produces the fittest Scotland Yarders in the land!” His deep-set, lustrous eyes twinkled.

Holmes motioned for me to take a seat, which I did. Then he strode back and forth in front of the seated Inspector.

“You have a great cranium, Inspector,” he said, stopping to run his fingertips along an invisible hat band around MacDonald’s head. “Twenty-four and a three-quarters. Enviable.”

And at that, the usually silent, dour man smiled. It seemed Holmes was not the only one affected by flattery. Or perhaps he merely appreciated precision in all aspects of life.

“Significant frontal lobe development, both perceptive and reflective regions,” said Holmes, whipping out a measuring tape, then a compass, then a set of odd-looking calliphers that must have been crafted by his own hand, “suggesting both independent observation and independent thinking. Keen intelligence, of course, that’s well documented.”

“With this—” Holmes indicated the ridge of MacDonald’s great sandy eyebrows.

“Bump?” suggested MacDonald.

“A layman’s word, Mister Mac. Hill and hollow are the preferred term, yes, with this hill, we’d expect a developed ability to distinguish objects, shapes, weights, forms, etcetera, and remember past and passing events. Essential for a detective.”

Homes made notations in pencil in a note-book and fussed about MacDonald’s forehead, muttering numbers and calculations under his breath, only pausing once to ask,

“I trust the experience is not uncomfortable one?”

“Hardly,” said MacDonald. His smile widened into a grin, and he punctuated his reply with a wink.

Now in the half a dozen or so cases that Holmes had aided him, I’d seen the Yarder look shocked, surprised, agitated, even lose his temper on occasion, but I’d never seen him wear such an expression as that one.

He looked, well, quite frankly, enamoured.

As Holmes resumed his measuring, I leaned back in my chair and donned a mask of detached professional interest.

Holmes commented on other aspects of MacDonald’s head, but I paid no attention. Inside my own great cranium, I was troubled. And troubled because I was troubled.

Why should I be troubled?

As a medical student and as a physician, observing another practitioner at work was commonplace, required even. And I understood the importance of Holmes’s contributions to academia, even if I did not consider tobacco ash, newspaper type, or ears to be the most scintillating of topics.

To each his own pursuit, but…

A strange pique rose in my chest as I watched Holmes’s hands, those long elegant fingers, accustomed to manipulating fragile philosophical instruments, or a bow and violin, with strength and care, dancing about MacDonald’s crown.

My physician’s mind kept arguing, to the point of shameful scolding, that while certain gestures might be intimate, they were not, in fact, personal. Surely that was plain to me, as a doctor, having performed similar gestures many times a day over the course of a career.

“That’s it,” said Holmes, returning his measuring tools to the desk. “I thank you for your valuable time. A ‘wee nip to keep out the raw morning chill’?”

Raw morning chill? It was half past eleven!

“No, thank you, sir,” said MacDonald. “I’d best be about the business that brought me to London in the first place.”

When MacDonald had left, Holmes asked me if I’d like to review his notes.

“No,” I replied, with a bit too much vehemence. I knew it was a bit too much because the instant the word crossed the ether between us, one of Holmes’s eyebrow rose and his sharp gaze fell upon me.

I feared he would read something in my features that I myself had not yet discovered, so I stood and, pleading a stiffness in my shoulder, went upstairs to my bedroom to rest. Old war wounds are wonderful excuses in that way.

* * *

I lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling and tried to put a name to what vexed me.

I did not want Holmes’s hands on MacDonald.

But why?

I must have dozed, but I woke with the answer to my question, ready and clear.

I did not want Holmes’s lovely hands on Inspector MacDonald because I wanted them on _me_.

And only me.

Good Lord.

I was jealous!


	2. Lestrade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The joke is that Doyle describes Lestrade as a rat, a ferret, and a bulldog, which are very different looking animals.

I did not return downstairs to face Holmes. I spent the remainder of the day in bed going over my discovery.

By nightfall, I had wound myself into quite a state. Then suddenly, a bit of sweet violin song wafted under the door.

What a lovely man.

Odd, yes, infuriating, yes, but, oh, so lovely.

I listened and soon drifted off to sleep.

* * *

How night’s worry seems so trifling in morning light!

As I descended the stairs, the previous day’s jealousy felt as relevant as a page from a child’s storybook. And I was ravenous, far more consumed with consuming the breakfast that Mrs. Hudson so kindly placed before us than anything else on the menu.

“Your appetite, at least, appears to be in working order,” remarked Holmes. “Watson…”

“Hmm?”

“I plan to continue my phrenological researches today.” He hesitated, then added, “if you’ve no objection.”

“No, go right ahead.”

“I welcome your advice, and if you perceive an error or lapse, know that you are at full liberty to insert yourself into the proceedings.”

Holmes’s voice and his gaze held such concern that I was, at once, humbled.

“I’m feeling much better today,” I said with as much affection as so few words could convey.

His sigh and the half-smile that followed did much more than humble me, but I quickly quashed any rising sentiment.

“It should be a very interesting case,” he said.

“Oh, yes? Who’s the lucky fellow?”

“Lestrade.”

* * *

“It is curious,” said Holmes.

“Oh, yeah?” asked Lestrade. “What?”

“Your head.”

Holmes walked around the armchair until he stood directly behind Lestrade’s left shoulder. He stopped and stared at the inspector’s head for a long moment. Then he moved to the space behind Lestrade’s right shoulder and stared some more. Then he returned to front.

“I’m only here, Mister Holmes, because you promised a fine cigar and a fine whiskey in exchange for a bit of my time and patience, both of which I have very little.”

I had both offerings in hand and presented them like sacrifices to a pagan god.

“Thank you, Doctor,” said Lestrade with a begrudging gruffness. He took the glass and cigar and settled into the armchair.

“From one angle, your proportions take on a certain, shall we say, mustelid quality, but from another angle, the impressions are more rodential. Or perhaps even canine,” said Holmes.

“Yeah, well, as my Gran used to say, it’s better than looking like a horse’s behind.” Lestrade took a long swig from his glass, then coughed. His dark eyes widened, and he peered into the tumbler, studying the amber liquid in much the same way Holmes studied him.

“Well, now that is quite a spirit you have, Mister Holmes,” he said.

“Thank you.” Holmes unfurled his measuring tape. “May I begin?”

“Why not?”

Lestrade took another sip and leaned forward that I might light his cigar, and when he sat back, Holmes commenced to buzz about him like a bee about a flower, sipping nectar by way of taking measurements with various instruments.

“Twenty-one. Solid,” pronounced Holmes, looking at the tape.

Lestrade nodded and puffed on his cigar.

I poured myself a drink, and while I did not match our visitor sip for sip, I did soon find myself feeling its effects. The whiskey was, after all, the strongest and the best that our cabinet had to offer.

Interesting that Holmes had chosen to bring it out today, for this purpose, for this visitor.

Holmes muttered something about ‘anticipated hollows’ but Lestrade seemed quite content to smoke and drink without paying the commentary any mind.

Holmes then extended the measuring tape over the top of Lestrade’s head and held it there with splayed fingers.

His hands.

I caught myself staring more than once.

At certain intervals, Holmes and Lestrade exchanged opinions about the day’s news. I grunted once or twice and offered an ‘indeed’ when they looked my way, but Holmes’s hands kept moving, roaming about Lestrade’s head, and I could not look away.

Lestrade was tolerating Holmes’s touch. Perhaps even enjoying it. Difficult to say what was caused by the refreshment and what was a product of other stimulation.

Damn it!

I grew angrier, irrationally, shamefully so, I knew, with every allegedly scientific caress Holmes bestowed upon Lestrade.

I shifted restlessly in my seat until I could no longer contain myself.

Holmes was now rubbing the very top of Lestrade’s head and speaking.

“…this is the region firmness, of decision, determination, and will and here,” his hand traveled toward Lestrade’s ear, “the region of conscientiousness, the desire to do right. Remarkably developed. This is your tenacity, Lestrade, the trait that has put you ahead of your peers—“

“Must you fondle him so!” I shouted, rising from my chair and spilling my drink upon the rug.

Holmes frowned.

Lestrade stared.

My skin was on fire.

My brain was on fire.

I was a beast!

The earth needed to swallow me whole!

I was praying for that very event when Lestrade’s expression melted.

He laughed. And laughed. And slapped his knee. His own drink joined mine on the rug.

“By Jove, I’ve never met a chivalrous drunk until now!” he slurred. “Defending my honour, are you, Doctor?” He looked up at Holmes and growled. “Yeah, you’re a blackguard. Hands off, scoundrel! Not until we’re married!”

Holmes bit his lip, stifling a laugh. Then he managed, “Going by the underdevelopment of your rear cortex, that is the domestic region of the cranium, that would be a singularly poor idea for both of us.”

And at that, we all three dissolved into a collective bout of very ungentlemanly giggling.

I fell back in my chair. Holmes put away his instruments. Lestrade wobbled to his feet.

“You are the pick of the lot, Lestrade,” said Holmes.

Lestrade answered him, “We aren’t jealous of you, sir. We’re damn proud.” Then he tipped his hat and thumped down the stairs.

I crumpled where I sat, pickled, damned, proud, and hopelessly, helplessly jealous.


	3. Gregson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for implied masturbation.

I thought that I had escaped further humiliation when I’d heard no more from Holmes about his research for more than a week, but I was, as I often am with regard to Holmes’s affairs, wrong.

“Was that Tobias Gregson I passed outside?” I asked one evening upon return to Baker Street.

“Indeed,” said Holmes.

“He looked a bit out of sorts. Almost knocked me down.”

“Well, there's the fog, and he’s in a hurry.”

“Case?”

“He does have a case and he’s on his way to Edinburgh to follow up a lead that will, with all certainty, come to nothing, but I somehow doubt that haste is the reason for his condition. Do not worry. It will pass.”

He returned his calliphers to the desk, then faced me.

“Apologies, my dear man, for not making you aware of my plans. I know that you are inundated with patients at the surgery and had no wish to place further burden on your precious leisure. Gregson’s imminent departure from London meant that I had little freedom to schedule his examination.”

“Ah, your phrenological study?”

I nodded at the new addition to the room’s furnishings: the bust resting on the desk. It was crisscrossed with black lines, and each division bore a label in tiny lettering.

“Yes, it continues.”

“And Gregson was your latest recruit.”

“He volunteered—wholly unsolicited!”

My surprise must have shown on my face.

“Yes, yes, I was a bit taken aback as well, but not for long. It's quite simple,” said Holmes. “He and Lestrade have their knives into each other, do they not? Like a pair of professional beauties; theirs is jealous rivalry. As soon as news of my examination of Lestrade reached Gregson’s ears, I’m certain that the matter was decided. If I was looking for excellence in criminal investigation, well, I should not waste my time with—I’m afraid Gregson made an unflattering comparison about Lestrade—“

“Mongoose?” I suggested.

“Weasel.”

I cringed.

“—someone so hobbled intellectually as his colleague, or so he said when he presented himself for observation this evening.”

“And?”

“The results were not dissimilar to Lestrade’s, but the examination itself was significantly different. In fact, if you are not too worn from your day, I should like to discuss the matter with you.”

With a plate of cold supper and a—note the singular—glass of whiskey in my belly, I was prepared to hear Holmes’s tale.

“I was palpating along cranial fissures with perfectly straightforward technique from here,” he pointed to his ear, “to here.” His hand crossed over the top of his head, then twisted to indicate the other ear.

“Yes?”

“And he purred.”

“What?!”

“An unsophisticated term, my dear doctor, but the most apt in describing the noise, a tonal fluttering most commonly heard in contented felines.”

“Gregson purred while you petted him!” I cried, shaking my head at the image the words conjured.

“I did not _pet_ him!” protested Holmes. “I performed an objective, textbook-worthy examination of his skull. Really, Watson, surely in all your years as a medical man, you’ve encounter patients who appreciate your physician’s touch a bit more than others.”

I grunted and sniffed and coughed and made a Herculean effort to contain my outrage.

“It happens. The body reacts of its own accord,” I said as evenly as I could manage.

“Indeed. Well, I offered him the whiskey.”

“Good Lord.”

“To have shown favouritism, Watson, would have been most ill-advised in this case. He was ogling the bottle from the moment he arrived. I’m certain Lestrade did not spare _that_ little detail in his boasting.”

I huffed. It would be like putting out a fire with oil, which I quickly realised, Holmes had also tried once.

“The purring continued, I expect,” I said dryly.

“His body reacted, as you say, of its own accord.”

He shot me a look, which I volleyed right back at him.

“Holmes!”

“Watson.”

The exchange of looks continued.

“Good Lord!”

“Yes, he also broke into song, a shanty that is quite familiar to Captain Basil, but one that Sherlock Holmes dares not admit to knowing, especially before Mrs. Hudson has turned in for the night. The musicality is to be expected as I did note a modest hill in the left parietal—”

“Damn it, Holmes, I don’t care about the man’s head! How on earth did you resolve the situation?” Dread coiled in a hard knot in my gut. “Did you—?”

“I finished my task as quickly as possible, given the flailing and the attempts at fraternal embrace—“

I gave a snort. Fraternal, my arse!

“—and suggested he avail himself of our,” Holmes paused and waved a hand, “facilities to ready himself before embarking on the long journey to Scotland.”

Oh, no. Gregson having a drunken frig in our privy was a most noisome notion.

“Yes,” said Holmes ruefully as if reading my thoughts.

“But it does explain his state when I bumped into him,” I said.

Holmes hummed and turned to his note-book. “But it has no bearing on the data, of course.”

It might have had no bearing on the data, but it positively ruined my night’s sleep.

Though horribly fatigued, my mind would not rest. I kept re-playing the scene.

No, not Gregson in the privy. Once the initial shock had passed, I could not blame him for his body’s response and, in truth, could think of no more polite way to address the dilemma than the one Holmes had offered him.

No, I kept seeing Holmes’s hands. And I kept imagining his touch. I realised, quite quickly, I had very few points of reference for my fantasy.

His touch would be gentle, precise, confident, firm.

Just words.

I ached to know, to put myself, well, to put myself in his hands.

My head, if that was the only part that interested him, but other parts, too.

All of me, in truth.

I sighed.

Today had been difficult, but tomorrow would be much, much worse.

Hopkins.


	4. Hopkins

Hopkins.

Quicker than Lestrade, more energetic than Gregson, more talented than MacDonald, and more ambitious than all three seasoned Yarders combined.

And the closest thing Holmes had to a protégé.

And though it hadn’t occurred before, that night I considered him the closest thing I had to a rival for Holmes’s…

…attention?

…affection?

I cursed myself and vowed to vacate the premises at first light and not return until the following day. I’d nod in a chair at my club if needed, but not under any circumstance would I be witness to Holmes polishing the crown of young Hopkins!

In my haste the next morning, however, I forgot my cigarette case. I threw myself into my work, but nothing completely distracted me from its absence. I could’ve bought cigarettes or tobacco, of course, at a shop or from any number of vendors in the street but I am a hopeless creature of habit. Finally, I made the decision to slip back to Baker Street, retrieve the case, and return to work without anyone the wiser. Holmes had mentioned attending a noon-day concert so I waited until then.

But no sooner was the thin silver case in my hand, and I heard the front door open.

“My dear man, it’s quite all right,” Holmes said. “The programme was, unfortunately, not living up to expectations.”

“I confess I am quite looking forward to this, Mister Holmes. Enlightening, educational, I should think.”

“I certainly hope so.”

The footsteps were growing louder.

Oh, dear God. There was no escape!

I glanced at the stairs. Could I make it to my room before they arrived?

No!

Oh, what to do?

And there, in that precise moment, is where I took complete leave of my senses.

I hid.

Like a thief in an amateur theatrical production, I hid between the drawn curtain and the street-facing windows.

“A bit dark,” said Hopkins. “Don’t you think—?”

“This is one of those very rare occasions when natural light deceives. A pair of lamps will serve my purpose better. There. And the chair right here. Yes.”

Surely Holmes had seen me. How on earth was I going to explain this? Should I make my presence known?

I had decided that I should and was about to do so, when Holmes said,

“All right. Now, let me take your coat and hat, Inspector.”

“Thank you. Shall I remove my shirt as well?”

Good Lord!

“Make yourself as comfortable as you possible,” said Holmes. “Doctor Watson will be at his surgery for the whole of the day, and Mrs. Hudson is on strict orders not to interrupt.”

Was she now?

“Very well,” said Hopkins.

I heard a swishing that might have been a jacket and shirt being removed and then some other sounds that I could not readily place.

Was Hopkins jumping?

“Inspector?” asked Holmes, clearly as perplexed as I, which is saying quite a lot for the situation.

“Swedish exercises,” Hopkins panted. “Just read this most excellent monograph on the subject.”

Swedish exercises!

“Hopkins, I will be examining your head, and _only_ your head,” said Holmes.

Yes, and don’t you forget it, cheeky imp!

“I’ll just stretch the neck then.”

“Sit here. Please.”

And stop behaving like a buffoon, which I realised, even then, was horrendously hypocritical for a man hiding behind a curtain.

“Ready?” asked Holmes.

“I am.”

There was a silent moment and then Holmes said,

“Twenty-three.”

“Yes!” exclaimed Hopkins as if he’d scored a goal.

It was then that it occurred to me, much too late, perhaps, that I ought to have my head examined.

What was I doing?

It was ludicrous.

“You have an excellent symmetry, Inspector.”

“Yes, left, right, quite right.”

“Frontal lobe development is good. A spiritual man, I read.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Aspiring faculties extremely well developed.”

At this, Hopkins squeaked.

“Inspector?”

“That tickles.”

“Apologies. On to the detailed measurements, then.”

I heard the desk drawer open.

“Oh, Mister Holmes, you really are extraordinary. Always striving. Always learning. Making those connections.” There was the snapping of fingers.

“Inspector, please.”

“Just like me, a hound on the scent. Oh, could you do that again, sir?”

“What?”

“Right there, a little bit lower, a bit harder, if you would…”

Enough!

I was going to put a stop to this and dignity be damned!

I gripped the curtain but halted when I heard a loud voice from downstairs.

“Hopkins! Are you there?”

“Damn it,” said Hopkins. “What is it, Jones?”

Athelney Jones. No love lost between him and Holmes. He’d called Holmes a ‘theorist’ and ascribed most of Holmes’s success to luck. Even if invited, I doubt he’d agree to participate in Holmes’s study.

“Come at once!”

“Might Mister Holmes be of assistance?” asked Hopkins.

“I don’t think his fortune-teller’s tricks will do much for a three-street pub brawl.”

Hopkins groaned. “I hate these cases. We’re detectives! We should be doing work that engages our mental faculties—“

“Have it your way!” called Jones. “I’ll just tell the Chief how—“

“Mister Holmes, I am dreadfully sorry.”

I bet!

Good-bye!

“Another time, Inspector. Duty calls.”

Footsteps on the stairs. The front door closing.

“If you’re quite done skulking and eavesdropping, Watson, you can join me for a smoke.”

I drew back the curtain.

“Holmes.”

“Watson.”

“Hopkins!” I cried.

“Is a good detective. But often seems to be in want of a leash.”

I sighed loudly.

“Please, Watson, have a seat,” Holmes said gently. He gestured to the armchair, which was now facing away from the window. “Not the most convenient of hiding places when one’s feet are showing, by the way,” he added, nodding toward the window.

I sank into the armchair.

I was tired of the whole charade.

I would speak my heart and let the cards fall where they may.

“Holmes, I have a confession. This phrenology business. Your research. It’s, well, had a peculiar effect on me. It’s made me frightfully—?”

“Jealous?”

Of course, he’d observed it!

“Yes,” I said sorrowfully.

“And you've every right to be."


	5. Watson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's taken this journey with me. My phrenology resource was ,[Heads and How to Read Them](https://archive.org/details/b21466397%22) by the amazingly named Stackpool E. O'Dell.

“A parade of Yarders,” said Holmes. “Short-sighted and unscientific to not include you, Watson.”

Holmes was the most unconventional man I’d ever known, but his words did not seem to be the beginning of a love confession.

“But the focus of your research is the professional criminal investigator, is it not?” I asked.

“Doesn’t being partner, companion and chronicler of the greatest investigator of our time qualify in some vicarious manner?”

I smiled.

“Shall we?” asked Holmes as if he were asking me to dance. His voice dripped with charm, and he unfurled his measuring tape in a most theatrical manner—yes, I, too, would’ve thought the gesture wholly invulnerable to drama.

“Let’s,” I said.

It was the heart that answered, with encouragement from the loins, naturally, but when the head caught up, I realised my folly.

“Twenty-two.”

“I shall inform my hatmaker. Less felt required,” I replied, knowing that before long I would be in the same predicament as poor Gregson.

“Frontal lobe development, average.”

Oh, let it be the calliphers, the sticks, the tape, anything but—

His fingers. His hands. His touch.

Gentle, precise, confident, and firm did not do them justice. They were all those things, yes, but also, simply lovely.

Holmes measured the top of my head, from ear to ear and eyebrows to nape. Then he traced an invisible map with exploratory fingers. Then he began to _rub_.

“No surprise that the region of benevolence is well developed, one would hardly expect a physician to be otherwise.”

I closed my eyes as he massaged a swathe above my ears with increased firmness. “This is what the textbooks refer to as the region of sublimity, that is, appreciation for the grand and awe-inspiring. I expect our association has contributed to its pronounced development.”

I rolled my eyes and was about to utter a retort when he pushed at the back of my head. My chin instinctively dropped to my chest.

“Area of domesticity,” said Holmes. “Well-developed for one who is not currently a head of household.”

“That title goes to Mrs. Hudson."

“Indeed. Now this,” he began to massage, gloriously deep strokes performed by worm-like fingers, at the base of my skull. “is the region of amativeness.”

I bit my lip to prevent any animalistic noises from escaping me, but my body was astir. My cock grew hard, and the blood rushed in my ears to the rhythm of Holmes’s ministrations.

“Love of one sex for the other,” Holmes explained.

And it was a testament to my state of arousal that I spoke far more freely than I ever had before in his presence.

“Then should be bulging as I love both sexes and everything in-between.”

I looked up in horror.

“It’s quite all right, Watson.”

I closed my eyes as if before the hangman. “Holmes, I was jealous. Jealous of all the Yarders, but it was not a matter of pride, it was—“

He put one finger to my lips.

The touch surprised and silenced me.

“I shall conduct no more research. I have two conclusions. Would you like to hear them?”

No! What I bloody well wanted was to confess my affection for this infuriating man, but he seemed determined to prevent me from doing so!

“What?” I sighed angrily.

“One,” Holmes walked towards the fire and picked up the poker. “Phrenology is rubbish.”

SMASH!

Shards of ceramic went flying.

“Holmes!” I cried as I covered my face.

“I know,” he said as we both stared ruefully at what was left of the bust. “I can never resist a dramatic moment.”

I blinked, then asked. “But your monograph?”

“Three years is a long time to reflect. When I was away, I ruminated on everything that Moriarty had said to me and one thing, though at the time I considered it a schoolyard taunt, was, ‘You have less frontal development than I should have expected.’ Well how could that be so if I was the one still alive instead of him? So, I vowed, when life permitted, to conduct a scientific inquiry to investigate the matter.”

“And after five sets of data, you have your rebuttal,” I said.

“Oh, no. I reached my conclusion half-way through MacDonald’s examination when there was a question far more intriguing to investigate.”

“What?”

“Why was my Watson jealous?”

My jaw dropped.

“Holmes! You knew?”

“Who needs to read your head, Watson? Your face is an open book!”

My skin warmed.

“And so Lestrade? And Gregson? And Hopkins?!”

“I am an impatient man, Watson, but not a cruel one. I might urge a confession, but I shall not browbeat one out of you, especially one as delicate as this. Your fascination with my hands—”

I made a noise of protest.

“—it’s in black and white, my dear man!” cried Holmes. “I wondered how far it extended—“

“You have been playing with me for sport!” I said crossly.

“The only game that truly matters,” he replied quietly. “Three years is a long time to reflect, my dear man, as I said, on the trivial and the profound, and I decided if Providence granted me another chance to live and work by your side, I should not waste it.” He moved to face me directly, then knelt amidst the debris. “I care for you deeply, my dear, dear Watson.”

He took my hands in his. I shivered. He shivered, then smiled.

“And wish to place my hands upon you as much as you wish them to be placed.”

“Impossible,” I whispered when I found my breath.

“Only highly, highly improbable.”

“Oh, Holmes.”

“What say you, Watson?”

“I say that I should like to retire for the afternoon and give your head an exceedingly thorough examination.”

Holmes grinned. “Seems only fair,” he said.

I reached a hand out and smoothed his lacquered hair. “Not _this_ head.”

He laughed and helped me to my feet and as the bedroom door closed behind us replied,

“I am, now and evermore, in your good hands, Doctor.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
